THE LAST TIME WARP
A Tribute to Tim Curry
Some performances entertain us.
Some stay with us.
And every once in a while, someone steps onto a screen and changes the temperature of the room.
Tim Curry was one of those people.
With a raised eyebrow, that unmistakable voice and a presence that could move effortlessly from wickedly funny to deliciously sinister, he created characters we didn't simply watch. We remembered them.
For generations of us, one character in particular strutted into our lives in pearls, heels and fishnets and never quite left.
Dr. Frank-N-Furter was outrageous, magnetic, funny, dangerous and gloriously impossible to ignore. Tim didn't merely play him. He gave him an electricity that still crackles through The Rocky Horror Picture Show more than fifty years later.
This collection was created in celebration of that extraordinary performance and of the actor who gave it life. Among the lips, pearls, corsets, feathers, clocks and glorious excess is a little thank-you to a performer who taught generations of audiences that sometimes the very best thing you can do is stop worrying about fitting neatly into the box.
So turn up the music, put on the pearls and take that jump to the left.
And when the music quietens, remember...
There’s a light.
For every performance that made us laugh, every character that gave us chills, and every memory that remains long after the curtain falls.
Thank you, Tim.
Don’t dream it. Be it.
With love,
Thistles & Pixels™
Bramblewylde
Secrets Beyond the Glen
Bramblewylde, had always been hidden.
Beyond its crooked bridges and lantern-lit paths, past the cottages tucked beneath roots and bramble, stood the ancient Bramble Veil. No one could remember when it had grown there. Everyone knew only that it marked the edge of their world, and that sensible folk left it well alone.
Tilli had every intention of being sensible.
She was simply going to look.
Tuck, padding reluctantly behind her, knew better.
Deep within the tangled bramble, Tilli found something that should not have been there: a narrow opening between two ancient roots. Beyond it, the woodland seemed familiar, yet strangely different. The air smelled of heather and pine, and somewhere in the distance a robin called.
“Just a little further,” whispered Tilli.
Tuck sighed.
Together they slipped through.
Neither saw the little robin watching from the branches above.
Neither knew that his name was Rowan, or that beyond those trees stood the Great Mother of Thistle Glen, ancient and watchful.
But before the day was over, Tilli would return to Bramblewylde carrying a single rowan berry in her pocket...
...and the certainty that the Bramble Veil had never been the end of their world.
It was only the beginning.
Among The Thimblekin Add On :-
This is an exclusive only available in Creative Misfits
Autumn in the Glen
Sorry everyone, I have updated the link so you should be able to grab the correct one now .
AUTUMN IN THE GLEN
The first sign of autumn was not the turning of the leaves. It was Rowan. He appeared one bright September morning on the windowsill at Heatherbank Halt, his little red breast glowing against the misted glass. Between his beak he carried a tiny envelope, tied with a thread of russet wool and sealed with a single rowan leaf. Luna spotted him first. “Travis! He’s here!” Travis barely had time to grab his satchel before Luna was through the waiting-room door. Hamish came scrambling after her, his tartan neckerchief flying, while Scottie followed at a rather more dignified pace. Rowan dropped the envelope neatly into Luna’s hands. Inside were only six words.
The harvest has begun. Come home.
They did not need telling twice. By the time they reached the Glen, the morning mist was lifting from the hills. Heather still coloured the higher slopes purple, but below them the woods had begun their slow change to copper, russet and gold. Rowan berries shone scarlet amongst the leaves, apples bent the orchard branches, and the air carried the wonderful earthy smell of damp moss, woodsmoke and fallen leaves. Shelly was waiting beside the old signpost. At least, she was supposed to be waiting. Only her enormous silver tail could be seen sticking out of a basket of apples. Luna stopped. Travis folded his arms. Hamish tilted his head. Scottie sat down. The basket rustled. Then Shelly emerged wearing an apple leaf on her head and looking as though nothing whatsoever unusual had happened. “It fell over,” she announced. Travis looked at the perfectly upright basket. “Of course it did.” Shelly gave him a look of great dignity and trotted away. It was Shelly’s first harvest in the Glen, and she intended to investigate every bit of it. There was certainly plenty to investigate. All through the little crofts and cottages, doors stood open as everyone prepared for the colder months ahead. Baskets of apples and pears waited beside garden gates. Herbs hung in fragrant bundles. Oats and barley were stored away, logs were stacked beneath little shelters, and kitchen windows misted with the warmth of preserving pans. On one windowsill stood jars of blackberry preserve, crab apple jelly and apple chutney, glowing like jewels in the afternoon light. Travis reached towards one. Luna slapped his hand away.
“I was only looking.”
“With your fingers?”
“I look better with my fingers.”
Even Scottie seemed unconvinced.
They spent the morning helping in the orchard. Luna gathered apples carefully into a wicker basket while Travis climbed the old wooden ladder to reach the highest branches. Hamish discovered that windfall apples rolled beautifully downhill and had to be persuaded that this was not, strictly speaking, harvesting. Scottie appointed himself supervisor. He sat beside the baskets with such solemn concentration that nobody had the heart to tell him he had fallen asleep. Shelly, meanwhile, had discovered acorns. By lunchtime she had collected twenty-three. Nobody knew why. Possibly not even Shelly. Later they carried their harvest through the Glen. They passed the old stone bridge where the burn hurried beneath amber leaves, and beyond it the woodland path was scattered with beech mast, pine cones and the first crisp leaves of the season. The Glen was busy, but never hurried. That was the way of autumn there. Everything had its time. There was time to gather. Time to preserve. Time to mend the gate before winter. Time to stack another basket of logs beside the hearth. And, most importantly according to Travis, time for something warm to eat. By late afternoon they were gathered around the long kitchen table. There was thick Scotch broth, oat bannocks, farmhouse cheese and still-warm scones. A pot of tea sat beneath its knitted cosy while the adults talked and laughed around them. Hamish had somehow acquired half a bannock. Scottie had somehow acquired the other half. Neither offered an explanation. Outside, the light began to change. The brilliant gold of afternoon softened into honey. Long shadows stretched across the orchard and a thin ribbon of mist began to gather beside the burn. Luna carried the last empty basket outside. Shelly followed. At the edge of the garden, the rowan tree was heavy with berries. Rowan himself sat amongst them. For once he was completely still. Luna stopped beside him. Beyond the orchard, the Glen climbed towards the older woodland. The trees there were darker and taller, their roots buried deep beneath moss and stone. Scottie appeared quietly beside Luna.He looked towards the same distant trees. “What is it?” she whispered. Scottie’s ears lifted. But nothing moved. Nothing called. A single leaf loosened from the rowan tree and drifted slowly to the ground. Then, from the cottage behind them, Travis shouted. “Luna! Shelly’s in the apple basket again!” The moment was gone. Rowan fluttered from the branch and landed on the garden gate. Luna smiled. Whatever secret the old woodland was keeping could wait. Tonight belonged to the harvest. As darkness settled over the Glen, lanterns appeared one by one outside the cottages. Their warm light shone along the paths and across the stone walls. Somewhere a fiddle began to play, and before long tables were being moved, chairs pulled closer and neighbours arrived carrying pies, preserves, flowers and bottles wrapped carefully in cloth. Nobody came empty-handed. Not because they had to. Because that was simply how things were done in the Glen. The harvest belonged to everyone. Luna danced until her curls escaped their ribbon. Travis insisted he had not been dancing at all, despite considerable evidence to the contrary. Hamish fell asleep beneath a chair. Scottie remained awake. Mostly. And Shelly finally abandoned her collection of acorns when she discovered something infinitely more interesting. A tartan scarf left unattended on a bench. By the time anyone noticed, only her plume of a tail remained visible beneath it. Much later, when the lanterns had burned low, Luna stood for a moment at the garden gate. The hills were dark now, but above them the stars seemed impossibly bright. Behind her were laughter, firelight and the comfortable clatter of dishes being cleared away.
Ahead lay the quiet Glen. The orchard. The bridge. The woodland.
And somewhere beyond it, the oldest trees stood beneath the autumn stars. Rowan flew silently overhead and disappeared into the darkness. Luna watched until she could no longer see him. Then she turned back towards the warmth. There would be time enough for secrets. For now, the larder was full, the fires were lit, friends were gathered close, and autumn had come home to the Glen. And beneath the golden leaves, another older season was quietly waiting.
The End
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